


Stick Around For The Afterparty?

by ProblematicPines



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Afterparty, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother/Brother Incest, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Canon Divergence - A Tale of Two Stans, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Prom, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Stan O' War, Teen Romance, Teen Stans, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 06:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProblematicPines/pseuds/ProblematicPines
Summary: Being as sheltered as he was, it was no surprise to anyone that Stanford was the absolute worst at talking to girls.It wasn’t bad as in “Oh, he’s just a little shy”.It was bad as in “Jesus Christ this boy is hopeless”.





	Stick Around For The Afterparty?

Being as sheltered as he was, it was no surprise to anyone that Stanford was the absolute worst at talking to girls.

It wasn’t bad as in  _“Oh, he’s just a little shy”._

It was bad as in  _“Jesus Christ this boy is hopeless”._

Since he had remained indoors most of his life talking to his machines and his twin brother Stanley, Ford had never been one for conversation with anybody he wasn’t familiar with. This was especially with girls.

Being a teenage boy, there was some unspoken obligation for him to speak to girls his own age in hopes of forming a romantic relationship with one of them. But Ford had never really found this obligation particularly important regarding his own life. He was fine on his own (well, not on his own, because he had Stan by his side), and didn’t want to take time away from his studies by talking to women.

Besides, Ford wasn’t even sure he liked girls in that way. Again, there was an unspoken obligation for him to be attracted to girls and only girls, but he had never found any one of them any more interesting than he found a boy.

Well, there was one boy that he felt an indescribable desire for, but speaking about it would have him either institutionalized or worse.

So he supposed he should just play along as the insecure straight boy that nobody really knew anything about until he let them get close enough to understand him.

He supposed this wasn’t anything too out there: maybe he was just a late bloomer.

“Yes, that’s why,” he had told himself.

Stan had taken note of his apparent apprehensiveness towards the opposite sex (which he was absolutely enamoured with, to the point of asking out a new girl every other day), and had insisted that Ford try and speak to at least one girl in their Senior Year. It didn’t matter where, it didn’t matter when, so long as he underwent this apparent rite of passage.

 

_“But Stan, I don’t know if I want to,” Ford had insisted, swinging his legs absently over the side of his brother’s bed, where the two of them were sitting._

_“Well, it’s either ya do it ‘r I do it fer ya,” Stan responded, a sly smirk on his face. Ford bit his lip nervously. If he depended on Stan for this, then there was no telling what lies Stan could spew about him._

_Not ill-intentioned lies, no. Lies that boosted his social standing and made him seem a lot more interesting than he was._

_If Ford were to talk to any girl, he would prefer his responses to be as honest as possible, and not based on a previous charade._

_“That’s blackmail.”_

_“So?” Stan shrugged his shoulders casually. “It’ll help ya get out there, Ford.”_

 

So Ford, against his own wishes, spoke to one girl. Stan never specified which one, so he never thought too hard about his options.

The girl that was graced by Ford’s too-shy, too-uneasy, too-much-body-sprayed presence was Daphne Finnigan at their Homecoming Dance.

Ford had split off from Stan at the event (being by himself had felt like he was being split in two, but he could manage it for at least a few minutes), and plucked up what little courage he had and spoke to her at the concessions table.

He’d scoured the gymnasium for some time beforehand, trying to pick a girl that was on her own (which decreased the chances of being teased and insulted by surrounding students), but seemed approachable.

Britney Peters? No, too popular.

Samantha Dean? No, too boisterous.

Tina Mackie? No, too much of a “Mean Girl” stereotype.

Upon seeing Daphne Finnigan standing all by her lonesome at the concessions table, pouring herself a cup of raspberry punch, Ford decided to try his luck with her. She wasn’t too popular, she wasn’t too far out of his league, and she seemed attractive enough (as far as girls went). So Ford adjusted his cummerbund, adjusted his bow-tie, and headed over to her, intending to strike up some small talk in an attempt to get to know her.

Once he was behind her, Ford cleared his throat, and she turned around. Upon seeing him, her nose wrinkled up in disgust, and she glanced him up and down.

“Yeah?” she snapped harshly.

Ford tried to not let her frosty reception deter him. What was that thing Stan always told him?

 

_“If at first ya don’t succeed, force it”?_

 

Since he was Ford, he fucked it up on the first try.

All the years of introvertism and social awkwardness culminated in the worst possible opening line:

“Y-You look decent enough.” 

And followed it up with a laugh.

A fucking laugh.

Daphne looked as though Ford had slapped her in the face, and with a disgusted cry, tossed the contents of her recently-filled cup all over him.

Raspberry punch soaked all of Ford’s upper torso, cutting off his laugh quite effectively. The sticky liquid coated his glasses, making it hard to see, but he was half-dismayed, half-relieved to see Daphne storming away, stomping her empty cup under her heel as she went.

Ford had never anticipated such an outlandish reaction to merely speaking to a girl. Of course, he had seen enough Rom-Coms with Stan to know that nothing ever really turned out that way in real life, but he was still taken aback by the abrupt splash-attack.

Ford grimaced - the sickly sweet smell of the punch was beginning to make him feel self-conscious, and it didn’t help that the reaction had happened near the middle of the gymnasium, where most of the students were chatting away, and he could hear the toxic sound of laughter which he knew was directed at him.

“Better find Stan and let me have it,” Ford thought, resigning himself to his fate. He knew Stan wouldn’t go too hard on him, but he sensed Stan would be disappointed in him for messing up his first chance at talking to one of the fabled girls he had read about somewhere.

Just as he was turning around, Ford saw Stan standing right behind him, dressed in his pastel pink tuxedo (which complimented Ford’s own baby-blue tuxedo, which was quickly darkening to varying shades of purple and hot pink from the punch). Ford hadn’t realized Stan had been standing right behind him the whole time, and somehow, that made it all the worse.

Ford groaned, sagging under the weight of his own ineptitude.

“Go on, tell me how much of a-”

Before Ford could finish, Stan had done something so far out of left field it was to his right: he tossed his own cup of fruit punch over himself. The unexpected reaction made Ford stare at his twin brother in shock, and Stan merely grinned at him. His hair, usually slicked back with too-much gel but had been tidied up somewhat for the dance, was now dripping with punch, and his facial acne was all the more distinctive due to the sudden redness.

His pink tux was also soaked through, much like Ford’s own.

“There,” Stan smirked. “Now we look like twins again.”

How casually Stan said that, with that stupid grin on his face and a glimmer in his eyes, was enough for Ford to let go of his previous reservations and laugh heartily at his brother’s dumbassery, and Stan joined in too.

For a while the two of them were doubled over and cackling like a coven of witches at the concessions table, soaked with punch and making a mess, while being fully aware of their fellow classmates watching them and muttering to one another.

But the twins were so gleeful they barely noticed, or even cared.

After a while of laughing, the two of them decided to ditch the joint and head home for the evening. Sure, it was really early to be leaving so soon from a dance (which they’ll receive ridicule for, no doubt), but Stan and Ford simply couldn’t care less.

So the two of them burst out of the side-doors of the gymnasium (almost knocking over several students that were drinking alcohol outside of the teachers’ perimeters, who drunkenly yelled at them) and ran across the car lot towards Stan’s car.

The trusty Stanmobile was sitting there on the outskirts of the lot, dark red and familiar in the night-time. The sky above them was black and speckled with tiny glimmering stars, but on the horizon, it was still dark blue, and the crescent moon was shining high overhead.

Stan and Ford jumped into the car, still soaking wet and sticky from the punch that was certainly going to leave their (albeit rented) tuxedos irreparably stained a dark pink, but in the sudden unexpected bliss of the moment, neither could bring themselves to care.

The engine roared to life, and they soon pulled out of the car lot, heading down the dark road towards their home.

The distance from their school to their home was one far enough for Ford’s bliss to subside somewhat, and the cold reality started creeping in, dampening his mood and upsetting him slightly.

Stan, who was still riding on the high of the night, didn’t seem to notice at first (he was still trying to keep his eyes on the road, even if he was the happiest he’d been in days), until Ford’s lack of input on Stan’s immature and crude jokes became apparent to him.

“So then I said ta her… Hey, Ford, what’s eatin’ at ya?”

Ford had been trying to clean his glasses on the sleeve of his shirt, but only stained the baby-blue material even further. He groaned inwardly.

“Why did she react like that?” Ford questioned, moreso to himself than Stan. “Daphne, I mean. All I said was that she looked decent.”

“Decent ‘enough’, I heard,” Stan responded, sounding a little wry underneath his compassionate tone. “Great word choice, Sixer. Ya could have really said anything else than that and she woulda taken ya up on yer offer.”

Ford groaned dramatically, pulling at his sticky, punch-soaked hair, grimacing at the touch.

“ _GAAAAAAH_ ,” he howled mournfully. “I’m such a klutz! I knew I would mess it up!”

“Hey, it ain’t so bad,” Stan tried to insist. “All I said was that ya had to talk to a girl. I never said ya had ta get with ‘er. You did fine, in my book.”

Ford frowned, peering at his brother.

“But everybody saw,” he moaned. “I’m gonna be the laughing stock of the whole entire school.”

“Well, I mean you are already,” Stan responded.

_Bad phrasing bad phrasing bad phrasing._

“I mean, we both are,” Stan quickly corrected himself before Ford could go on a tangent. “Nothin’s gonna change all that much when ya think about it. Sure, assholes’ll hold it over yer head all year, but this is Senior Year. As soon as it’s over, we can tell ‘em ta ‘suck it’ and bail. We’re gonna get on tha’ Stan O’ War and sail away and never look back.”

Stan suddenly gasped, like something he’d forgotten had been remembered, and before Ford could inquire, the car was harshly turned to the left with a squeal of tires. They shot down the road, and Ford realized that Stan was driving not towards home, but towards the beach.

After a short drive, Stan parked near the sea-wall, and the two stepped out of the Stanmobile.

Ford peered over the hood of the car at Stan, hoping he’d provide him with answers as to why they were here; all he wanted to do now was go home and get a shower and a change of clothes, since the tux was irritably sticky and uncomfortable now.

“Since we’re obviously gonna miss the After-party-”

“Like we were invited,” Ford muttered under his breath.

“-I decided to set up a lil’ somethin’ on the Stan O’ War. Just fer us.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! I mean, why not? Am I not allowed to spend some quality time with my best brother?” Stan asked cheekily. Ford rolled his eyes.

The two of them set off down the beach, which was fortunately deserted.

The night wasn’t cold, but it was cooler than it had been during the day. The two of them looked very out-of-place: they were wearing punch-soaked tuxedos on a beach at night, and looked (mostly) identical. One of them even had extra fingers.

If somebody saw them, they’d almost certainly think they’d witnessed two murderers with birth defects.

Waves rolled in, dark and glittering with the reflection of the moon and the stars, and Ford could see the black hulk of the Stan O’ War silhouetted against the night sky, near the jagged rocks they’d concealed it behind.

The Pines brothers reached it, and Stan climbed hastily aboard the rickety metal rungs, with Ford close behind. Stan headed downstairs into the galley, and Ford waited patiently up on the deck, surveying their surroundings.

It was remarkably beautiful that night - Ford hoped to treasure the memory forever.

“Stan?” Ford called, when his brother hadn’t resurfaced for a little while. “You okay down there?”

“Yeah!” came the muffled reply. A few seconds later, Stan came lumbering up out of the galley, carrying with him a large bottle of vodka and two glasses, as well as a small lamp that emitted a warm reddish-orange light.

Ford was taken aback by Stan’s choices in surprising him, because he certainly had.

“Woah,” was all he managed to say.

Stan laughed at him while he set down the vodka and the glasses on a dark blue blanket Ford hadn’t noticed before. The lamp was placed down between the glasses, and the warm light looked so inviting and homely.   
“This was supposed to be fer after the dance,” Stan said to him. “I thought we’d’ve been stayin’ longer but, I guess not.” He sneered up at his twin. “‘Cuz you were such a dumbass.”

Ford playfully punched his brother in the arm, then took a seat down beside him, crossing his legs but sitting close for his brother’s warmth. He debated whether to remove his soaked jacket, but decided to just undo his bow-tie and unbutton a few buttons on his dress-shirt instead. The cool, crisp night air was soothing on his exposed skin, and Ford inhaled deeply, smelling the sea and the sweet aroma of the punch that was now leaving small reddish-pink mottles on his skin.

“This was a lovely idea, Stan,” Ford remarked lowly as Stan began pouring their drinks. “Though I must say: this is very similar to a date night.”

Upon hearing that, Stan averted his gaze, almost spilling the vodka in the process. Even in the red light of the lamp and the punch covering his face, Ford could see a definitive pink blush on his twin brother’s cheeks.

“W-W-Well, uh-” Stan stammered, trying to think of a response. “That’s merely co-coincidental, er- You’re just projectin’-”

Ford cut Stan off with a small and playful peck to the cheek, which made Stan freeze up like he’d been turned to stone. Ford tasted the punch on his lips, and licked them off. The sudden impulse brought with it a rush of adrenaline, and it seemed to be contagious; Stan snapped out of his momentary statuesque posture and turned to his twin brother, a light in his eyes that Ford had never seen before.

Immediately, Ford’s heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach, and he began to profusely apologize.

“Oh God, Stan, I’m so sorry, I never- I’m sorry, I know you don’t like men- like me, like that, please don’t hate me, I’m so so sorry-!”

Ford was planning his own funeral in his head when Stan set down the bottle of vodka and leaned in towards him, and, expecting a pummelling for being even more of a sick freak of nature than he already was, screwed his eyes shut tightly and tensed up, ready to feel the blow against his jaw and relish in the pain.

But the jaw-breaking punch never came.

Instead, Ford felt two lips press hard against his own, and the absolute unexpectedness of it all made his eyes fly back open again.

Stan was leaning in, pressing his lips against his, with his eyes closed and his whole body trembling like crazy.

Stan was kissing him.

_Him._

_His twin brother._

It was different to the small peck that Ford had given him beforehand - this one was actually a kiss, not just an innocent peck on the cheek. Ford could taste the punch and the vodka on his breath, as well as the slight undertone of the toffee peanuts that Stan craved and Ford detested. But now, in the heat of the moment, the different tastes were wonderful to Ford.

Craving more of the intoxicating taste, Ford got over his initial shock of being kissed by his twin brother  _(HIS TWIN BROTHER!!!)_  and put more effort into the kiss. He opened his mouth and let Stan take control; Stan pushed down on him slightly, pressing his body into the deck of the boat, and Ford moaned into the kiss, which only made Stan moan in turn.

For a while the two of them made out in the night, making the air around them buzz with electricity, whining and moaning into the kiss. Lips were bitten, tongues were met, and hands explored each other’s bodies, reaching underneath punch-soaked tuxedos and rubbing stubbled jawlines.

Soon, the two broke apart for air, and Ford and Stan met eyes as they panted heavily, seeing the glimmer in each other’s eyes. Ford was shaking all over with excitement and arousal, and Stan was just the same, if a little more wheezy.

“That...was…” Ford trailed off, too breathless to conclude his sentence.

“...Something!” Stan finished for him, sounding just as breathless but very much excited. Ford laughed at him, and exhaled shakily, letting himself relax after such an intimate moment between them.

He guessed he was supposed to feel shame or remorse for making out so intensely with his twin brother, but Ford couldn’t bring himself to care about what society thought of him at that moment.

All that mattered was him and Stan now, and he didn’t want to have it any other way.

An odd thought popped into Ford’s head.

“Wait,” he murmured. “If you liked me, then why did you insist I pick out a girl to talk to?” Stan blushed again, and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

“G-Gotta keep up appearances, right?” was his excuse. But Ford was too blissful to be mad at him; instead, he laughed heartily along with his brother, much like how they had earlier that night, and continued laughing under the starlit sky, surrounded by spilled vodka and entangled in one another’s embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> YAAAAAAASSSSSSS  
> I feel like I owe you guys a bit of a break after all the depressing and grim stuff I've posted the past couple weeks, so here's some tooth-rotting fluff for y'all to squeal over.  
> ALSO  
> This is not only my longest FanFic so far in any fandom (being over 3000 words), but officially my first Stancest FanFic!
> 
> Why it took me so ungodly long to get around to writing one is beyond me, especially since Stancest is my OTP. I will literally Ship this Ship until the day I drop because I love it so much.  
> There will be a lot more Stancest in future Fics, whether it's the primary focus or not.
> 
> This Fic was inspired by the one scene in ATOTS in which Ford gets punch thrown over him at a school formal and in turn, Stan soaks himself with his own punch to lessen the blow.  
> I haven't seen many people write Fics about this scene, so I decided to try my hand at it! And boy, am I glad that I did!
> 
> More Fics will be coming soon, so stay tuned!  
> As always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated!


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